As patients, we are not allowed to say no. I’m a man, not a rectum. In what universe are we talking about here. Not mine. Not me. Not now. Not ever. If I even hear the word – colonoscopy – I walk in the opposite direction. My eyes to the sky. What is it about women who require their husband’s to have colonoscopies. A few years back, The New York Times published a dialogue between readers who had questions dealing with this – cultural stuff – and I was stupid enough to have chimed in. Chiming In is my identity. But I was serious even if more than a few readers went off. On me. Because what I said shakes them. “What would you do if you had just listened to your own diagnosis.” Like immediately afterward. Now, we have all the usual suspects. I asked the group if suicide was something we could all probably know more about. I have been screamed at before. Usually in print. I was honestly not prepared for the livid outrage. This time, too. By women. Not a single male in the group of haters. I felt like I had been spit in the face. It was just a question. My second-selves all know the answers to the right questions. Why can’t we talk Life Is No Longer Worth Living. Homo sapiens deflect. I’m a man, not an enema. What voodoo has absorbed us. As the victim of rape, I want some of the power back. Doctor Boys, stop throwing around illusions you, yourself, do not believe in. Young. Old. Is not the right question. They all claim you will not be humiliated. Even the gown is to render you anonymous. I’m a man. Not a dildo. Women don’t get it. Let the screaming begin. The word patient and the word masochist all have the same politik. A Big Girl Word: No. – tim barrus